


Night Terrors

by Daydreaming_Chimera



Series: Drabbling in the Dark [1]
Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Anxiety, Blood and violence warning but it's only in Marianne's nightmare, Could Be Anything But Crimson Flower, Crest Scholar Guy from Marianne's Paralogue is a Meanieface, Depression, Developing Relationship, F/M, Hugs, Hurt/Comfort, Lots of Angst, Nightmares, Oops, Prompt Fic, Self-Esteem Issues, Some Fluff, This was supposed to be a drabble, Why Can't He Just Leave Mari Alone?, clinical lycanthropy, no beta we die like Glenn, route ambiguous, takes place shortly before Marianne's Paralogue
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-09
Updated: 2020-06-09
Packaged: 2021-03-03 20:33:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,740
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24631615
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Daydreaming_Chimera/pseuds/Daydreaming_Chimera
Summary: When a familiar but unpleasant face finds her once again, Marianne is forced to stare back at the darkness that haunts her every waking hour and every dream, but at least, this time, she's not alone in doing so.For the Felannie Server drabble prompt: "Hugs"
Relationships: Marianne von Edmund/Linhardt von Hevring
Series: Drabbling in the Dark [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1780903
Comments: 6
Kudos: 30
Collections: Those Who Drabble in the Dark





	Night Terrors

**Author's Note:**

> Hi guys, here with my second fic on this site, this time participating in the drabble prompt from the Felannie Server on Discord! Granted it's a bit late...^_^;  
> I hope everyone is doing well in these trying times, this year just gets even more difficult as it goes on. First a dangerous pandemic that spread like wildfire, and now facing the harsh reality that human beings are being mistreated and killed simply for how they look and seeing the abuse of power present in a profession that should revolve around protecting and not harming civilians firsthand. To those calling for justice, fairness, and peace, you have my support and I hope you are safe. To those suffering from either or both illness or violence, or even any kind of suffering that may be unrelated to what's going on right now, my heart goes out to you, and you are in my prayers.  
> God bless you, I love you, you matter, your life is a precious, beautiful thing that has every right to shine on. May one day peace and harmony return to our land for all people, that we may live in a world where we may walk hand in hand and no longer mistreat one another for the color of our skin, but know that we are all human, and as such love and lift up one another. (I hope I'm handling this alright, I usually don't speak about serious topics such as this, but it felt wrong to not say anything, and it breaks my heart to see innocent people hurt and killed)  
> With that said, granted this fic is rather heavy, I hope my writing in any way can help raise morale for you during these troubling days. <3
> 
> Be forewarned, the start of this fic does contain fairly graphic violence, at least for what I'm used to writing. I tried to tone it down, but I'm not sure if I can call it tame. Just be wary of that in case scenes involving people being mauled and torn apart, however nondescript and even in a dream, upsets you.

The dream is back. It’s the same dream as always. She prays it’s only a dream, anyway.

She’s not herself, she’s larger, faster, stronger…crueler. She’s on the trail of a small, faceless individual. They run into a thick, thorny thicket only outlined by the dim moonlight. She tears through the brambles, as much as her arms sting with the pain of the briars digging into her skin, covered with scales and fur, with little to no effort. Her claws ripping apart the trunks of the trees and the thick vines of the thorn bushes are like shears through paper, and that’s the part that scares her the most.

She screams to wake up, or for her body to stop as she smells the unadulterated fear of the person she’s hunting, her eyes seeing almost perfectly in the darkness as they stumble.

And a darker presence around her denies her that request with a sinister cackle.

 _We all have our sins, Marie_.

And the worst part is that she doesn’t know if it’s an outside force or if it’s _her_.

Every hair on her neck and her shoulders raises on end and she bares her fangs against her will, and she begins chasing at full speed, all fours and uprooting everything in her path. Roots and bushes fly in her wake as she snarls and forms practical trenches with her claws digging into the soft earth.

 _No, no no no NO!_ She cries out as loud as she can from within herself. The darkness just laughs all the more and claws at the back of her brain, her organs feeling like they’ve been encased in boiling hot tar, sticky, dark, and agonizing. Her body temperature rising to the point where she thinks she can breathe smoke and fire. She tries crying, but the darkness laughs.

_You are mine, you always were. You think you can be saved?_

_You think you will be forgiven?_

The smells of pure fear and mud flood her senses as she charges and, after staring into their blank features to sadistically draw out their dread and anticipation for the end, sinks her fangs into the victim and rips them apart. As they shriek in pain and terror, her claws do more work and dig into flesh, pulling and tearing.

_So pure of heart, weren’t you?_

Scarlet is everywhere, pain is everywhere, it drenches the once pitch black forest only she can see in, and it floods her senses, sending the beast into a raw frenzy as the tar constricts her heart. It doesn’t feel like it’s beating, anymore, and now wrapped to be so small that it cannot fit anything but hatred and primal blood lust.

_Lucky, is that what he called you?_

_A source of happiness?_

_The only happiness you have is when you succumb!_

As blood is all she sees, the cackling becomes too loud to bear, and she bursts into tears, howling at the top of her lungs.

  
And she wakes up, the maniacal laughter lingering in her ears as she sits up and tries to catch her breath, or maybe it’s her thudding heartbeat. She’s not sure.

Marianne immediately puts her hands to her face, to make sure the shape is still flat and not an elongated snout, mix of a dog and a wyvern. Her cheeks are the same, her nose, her ears aren’t pointed and still at the side of her head and not at the top. She looks at her hands. Soft and porcelain, no coarse blue fur, nor white scales or sickle-like claws. She flips them over and her palms show no signs of blood. She sighs in relief for a minute, slumping against her pillow and still gasping for air. Her pulse refuses to quiet down, its still like a thunderstorm throughout her whole body. Even though her heartbeat rages, once her breathing becomes even again and the echo of the dream has subsided, Marianne takes a deep breath and says a prayer, using her Faith magic to create a light source. She gazes at her room, an absolute mess as per usual, but no claw marks or overturned furniture.

She can safely say that what she experienced was only a nightmare…but the fact that it was so real, so visceral mortified her. She looks to her window once more and sees that it’s still pitch black outside, but after that dream, Marianne doesn’t think she can go back to sleep tonight.

At the same time, she is deeply abashed. She hasn’t had such dreams for months since she had come to repel the Empire. She’d seen it as a mark of progress, especially after remembering to tell herself everything he told her, even if she denied it all in his presence.

 _“I am fascinating”_ she recited in front of a mirror every morning before this incident, adding something new to the list with every thing _he_ said. _“I am lucky. I make people happy. I am exciting. I am worth getting to know.”_

As gobsmacked as she was, it worked. There were even times that she genuinely believed that maybe she was lucky.

Until she had this dream again. Then it felt like she was back to square one. She had an incredible amount of trouble believing any of those things about her, now. Now that she dreamed of blood.

She wonders why that is, though she has an idea. She’s seen a man on the premises, skulking in the background wherever she goes. He seems somewhat familiar, but she can’t quite place where. Regardless, Marianne’s seen his gaze pierce her with contempt as she went about her daily life, even when she felt alone, she knew she was being watched.

And if he was who she thought he was…things would only get worse, both in the real world and the dream world.

And maybe if he was right, the two would be no different form one another.

There’s only one place she’s ever truly felt safe from the world and from herself, so she leaves her room for the Cathedral, even if it is quite a walk. She cannot exhaust her Light magic forever, so she opts for a lantern that she manages to light quick enough, picking it up after donning a robe to wear over her nightgown, shoves on a pair of dainty slippers, and she turns the doorknob to the outside world and plans to leave.

Though those plans are shortly foiled by a concerned familiar — though unexpected — face standing right in front of her as she opens the door. Marianne would be self-conscious of her own unkempt, unbraided hair and general ghastly appearance due to stress and lack of sleep if not for him, hair so disheveled that he looked as if he’d lost a fight to one of the stray cats on the premises and how he has literally not changed clothes, only lacking his coat, his outfit is terribly wrinkled.

She doesn’t have any time to greet him before Linhardt leans over and hugs her (much to her dismay, how many times has she warned him about that?).

“Heard you scream all the way from my dorm.” He drowsily mumbles. At this, Marianne is silently horrified. To think, her shrieking at her night terrors could be heard all the way from the bottom floor…of another building, no less! “Quite a few people got concerned, thought I’d…” he pauses to yawn gracelessly. “I’d check it out.”

“…You shouldn’t hug me…” she says very matter-of-factly, but otherwise doesn’t try to pry away. She honestly appreciates, savors it more than she wants to let on. It’s something she needs from the pit of her heart and stills the troubled waters of her mind, but the nightmare lingers in the back of her mind like a bad omen.

At this, he parts, slowly, though his expression difficult to read outside of “tired”. “What happened?” He asks her in monotone, albeit a hint of calm understanding in his voice. They’ve only truly gotten to know each other since returning to the Monastery, but he knows enough about her crest to know what her troubles consist of.

She’s already having trouble recalling it, but the gist remains vivid. “…I had a bad dream…” she admits. “…I turned into a beast, and…I tore someone apart.”

He violently flinches at the description of the dream’s contents, but promptly regains his composure. “Ah, now it makes sense.” He begins to brush the hair out of his face. “Nothing ruins a good sleep more than a nightmare, so I can most certainly feel your pain.”

“Please, don’t joke about it! It was so…real. I felt like it had really happened once I woke up!”

“I was being serious. Though it is concerning how you described it as feeling ‘real’. …Did something happen to warrant your mind creating such a graphic picture?”

She flinches, she knows what it is, but…she’s not sure if she should confide such details in him. She shakes her head, face contorted with stress with furrowed eyebrows and a painfully tight grimace, and tries to scurry off. “I’m sorry, I was heading to the Cathedral to cleanse my mind, if you’ll excuse me.”

She’s not two paces down the hall before he calls from behind her. “Would you mind if I accompany you? I could stand some prayer, myself, and besides, walking in the dark alone is never a pleasant thing.”

She knows that he means “you could use the company and solace after that dream.”, and she does appreciate how carefully he worded it. Linhardt was known for many things, and one of the foremost things he was known for was his dry and crass word choices that left many of his comrades cross with him. The fact he deliberately took care in what he said to her, as to not hit any sensitive points…it was very kind.

“…I suppose.” She tells him in a hushed tone, as to not disturb those still asleep. If there were any after she screamed as loud as she did.

He picks up his pace and, once he reaches her side, offers his arm. “Thank you. In spite of my training indicating otherwise, I am a more praying man than people take me to be. Even then, it’d do us some good. Especially after that bloodbath at Gronder…”

Marianne takes his arm, and trying to keep a slow, steady pace, she sighs tiredly and walks with him to the stairs. “It truly was horrible…so many people…gone…”

“War’s too dreadful a thing, don’t you agree?” He adds to the topic, some semblance of energy starting to reform in his eyes, but not enough to make him seem truly awake. “Why does everyone on this continent instantly resort to violence when something doesn’t go their way? Quite frankly, there’s nothing a few well thought out words followed by a nice long nap to think things over with can’t fix better than an axe can.”

 _A nap_ …it’s so like him to say, isn’t it? 

“I…I agree.” She mumbles somewhat shyly. “It’s terrible how people kill each other.”

In the corner of her eye, Marianne can see Linhardt smile at her words. Right as they stop by the first step, he turns to her. “You truly are a kind woman, did you know that?”

She breaks eye contact again, he really knew how to fluster her. She prays he isn’t being facetious with her, though he and everyone else in this place has every right to be. “Anyone else would say the same…”

“ _Ah ah._ ” He chides, lifting her chin up and her face back to face him. She tries her hardest not to look him in the eye, he’s only cursing himself further every time he does something like this. “I mean it. You’re incredibly kind. Almost to a fault, but still so warmhearted.”

“…If that were true, why would I dream of murdering someone?” The memory of the dream resonates in her mind’s eye, the howls, the screams, the scarlet painting the darkness.

“Marianne, the fact that things like this bother you so much shows that they’re _not_ a part of you.” He rebuts her claims as his smile falters, realizing just how much progress the dream had undone, hopefully not permanently.

“But-“

“You told me that you were feeling better after saying positive things about yourself to a mirror, right? Well, we don’t have a mirror right now — semantics really — but regardless, repeat after me, alright?”

Marianne breathes in reticently, and exhales just as so. Why does he bother with someone like her, she wonders. “…Alright.”

“I am a wonderful, caring person.”

She hesitates to repeat those words. Such high praise…high praise she’s undeserving of. The sentence is caught in her throat, and it feels like she’s choking on it. Her mind screams that she shouldn’t be allowed to think of herself like that, so she stays silent as her vision blurs with anxiety. 

“Come on, say it.” He gently encourages.

She sighs one more time before finally conceding. “I…I am a….I am a wonderful and…caring person.” The words both sweet and bitter on her tongue. She shouldn’t be saying this, she feels dreadfully guilty even uttering these words in sequence out loud, but at the same time…something about it feels _good_.

“Say it again.”

She breathes in, she breathes out. “I…am a wonderful and caring person.” The words slip out a bit easier, granted she still feels as though she has no right to say such things about someone as loathsome as her. …But it still feels so very nice.

Linhardt blinks in a somewhat satisfied, heartening manner, the corner of his lips twitching into a smile again with every repeat of the sentence. “One more time?”

The third time, it’s as easy as exhaling, as much as she hates to admit it. “I am a wonderful and caring person.”

His smile blooms into a full, catlike grin. “Excellent.”

With that, he releases her face and her arm and gestures that she go down the stairs, first.

Her mind is a whirl as she scales downward, everything clashing together from her recollection of the nightmare, her opinions on herself, how curious it was that he was so interested in her…it was surely for her Crest, right? It had to be, cursed as it was it was her only real commodity…

Once she reaches the bottom, Linhardt follows suit, nearly stumbling on the last step before regaining his composure, acting as if nothing had happened. At that, he offers his arm to her once more, giving her the most sensitive look he has since they’ve met.

And as she accepts his arm again, Marianne feels like maybe it’s not just her Crest, after all.

The air is clean, fresh, delicate, though the Harpstring Moon weather brings cloudy skies, threatening to release their rain, and humid, balmy weather, even with the sun absent. Fireflies swarm across the field, illuminating the scenery with chartreuse flickers.

He leads her across the soft grass, brushing against her ankles and making them mildly itch. Even as he inelegantly yawns — to the point she’s concerned he may wake up the rest of the inhabitants that she hasn't already — they walk ever forward, a warm breeze picking up from the horizon and making their hair and clothing dance.

“You know, on the way back from the Cathedral once we’re done praying, this would be a _great_ place to catch some shuteye.” He shoots her a wry glance and cracks a teasing smile. “The weather could stand to be just the slightest bit cooler, but other than that? _Perfect_.”

His line delivery on point and his tone droll, Marianne tries not to laugh, she genuinely does, and hopes that she’s not smiling. At least, if she is, she hopes he can’t see it.

Linhardt, inversely, tries to keep smiling, even if she can see that his expression is washed over with disappointment. “Wasn’t quite the peak of comedy, was it?”

Marianne shakes her head, fluttering her eyelids downward as she took in the clean air. Her heart, mind, and lungs retained their tension and pain, but the outdoor air _did_ soothe them at least a little.

“Pity, I was hoping I could make you at least crack a smile.”

Should she be flattered by that? Maybe she was starting to think too hard about things, especially given how late it was.

Given her lack of response, he decided to add on to his prior statement, clearing his throat before continuing. “…What I mean to say is that I rather, what’s the word? Cherish your smile.”

At this remark, her eyes shoot open. What on earth was he saying?! “What do you mean by that?!” She blurts out, quite ruffled and her heart suddenly hammering in her chest. Why would he select such words regarding her of all people?

“Well, remember what I said about your Crest being as rare as it is and how it makes me and other people happy? Your smile is something similar, really. It’s so fleeting and elusive, it’s like catching a glimpse of a beautiful, mystical creature, and it’s so _exhilarating_ to see, and you want to savor every second it’s still in sight.”

“Please…” Marianne whispers timidly, slamming her eyes shut and her face on fire. What did she do to deserve such encomium? What did she do to deserve any such words? Why did he say things like this when they were together? It’s all too much, yet she still clings to his arm, even tightening her grip somewhat. The linen of his tunic, normally worn under his coat, is terribly crumpled, but the texture is still soft. “…Please stop. I don’t…don’t deserve-”

“After all, you make me very happy, so it’s only fair I try to make you happy, hm?”

To that, she doesn’t have the slightest inkling as to how to respond. She’s so utterly overwhelmed by all these beyond favorable comments, and as much as she wants to object to how she brings happiness, there’s something more to what he says than just a hypothetical observation about the effects of her Crest that makes her mind spin trying to decipher the meaning behind his words. To say nothing of the state of her heartbeat or how misty her eyes were becoming.

But then, he scoffs at himself. “Dear me, I’m starting to sound like Sylvain, I hope none of that was too forward.” Linhardt says with an awkward laugh midway through is sentence.

 _It was_ very _forward_ , Marianne thinks. Maybe not unwelcomely so as much as she wishes to deny that, butterflies in her ribcage as she truly mulls over what he said to her…

Linhardt looks back at her with a bit of a self-conscious smirk. “Marianne, cross my heart, honest to the Heavens, none of that was blarney, even if it somewhat sounded like it.” 

Guiltily, Marianne allows the corners of her lips to rise, just a little. “…Umm…it was very poetic…it was nice…”

Maybe it’s just her, she can’t see well in the dark (something that makes her very relieved), but for a minute she thinks she sees him blush. Regardless, he shifts his smile from flippant to candid, and he turns his head slowly — and almost bashfully if she didn’t know any better — to face the path ahead.

That is, until hurried footsteps come from behind them and yank Linhardt away from her.

  
It’s _him_. The man who’s been following her at the Monastery. The man who has been following her since forever. Unlike the two of them, his clothes are neat and flawless, as is his hair, but dark circles under his eyes indicate that he’s as tired as they are. Likely he had been waiting outside of the dorm building just to monitor her.

Just to see if she would turn into a beast.

“Young man, what do you think you’re you doing?!” The man hisses, turning Linhardt by the shoulder to face him. “You don’t realize the danger you are putting yourself into!”

Linhardt, not missing a beat, barely reacts other than mild frustration, squinting at the man with scrutiny. “Do I _know_ you?” He asks in his most derisive, annoyed tone possible, but with an underlying hint of meaning what he asks.

The man scoffs, folding his arms and lifting his nose ever so slightly in the air, a suppressed rage swirling in his eyes. “Clearly you don’t know the value of your own life. That _'_ girl' is a _monster!_ The same monster seen prowling about in the area, I should have you know!”

 _Monster._ The word makes Marianne’s blood grow cold and a rock sink in her stomach.

“I so happen to be a historian, folklore pundit, and an awarded Crest scholar for discoveries on the exceedingly rare Crest of Maurice. I’ve written four books on the subject you know-“

She knows inwardly Linhardt flinched as the scholar brings up the Crest, something that both had tried to keep a secret as much as possible…but this man…he had known _far_ before the two had ever even met…

Yet his expression remains forcibly calm.

“Oh. Doctor Mosconi. I thought you looked familiar. Read your book, ‘The Erased Hero and His Legacy’, fascinating material. However, I noticed a few holes in your theory in the eleventh chap-“

The scholar has no patience for him as he immediately cuts him off in favor of shooting daggers from his eyes at Marianne. “You little _fiend_ , it took me years to locate you after your father closed you off from the world! Don’t think your little facade as a pious, heroic healer boldly facing the Empire and mending the wounds of comrades is going to pay off. I know what you are, and I will not rest until-“

This time, it’s Linhardt’s turn to interrupt the Crest scholar. “It’s awfully rude to cut someone off mid-sentence, sir, and doubly so to say such things about someone like Marianne. Not only is she one of the kindest people I know, she’s also horrendous at ‘facades’ as you so eloquently put it. Quite frankly, she couldn’t lie her way out of a cheap sack. Therefore, I have to call you on your fallacy.”

 _Thanks, I think._ Marianne thinks.

The scholar snarls, fire flickering in his eyes at the gall of this arrogant young man to speak to him so discourteously. “You seem a well-educated man, and yet… _why_ do you do this!? None of my research ever pointed to the Crest of Maurice granting powers of mental manipulation…power over animals but not power over the wills of men…yet it’s clear that this beast has you under some sort of theoretical spell!”

“I wouldn’t call it a _spell_ , exactly.”

“So you willingly cursed yourself by associating with her!?” The scholar spits vehemently. Every word from his mouth dripping with the venom that’s poisoned Marianne’s thoughts for years.

 _Monster, beast, fiend, killer, bad omen, disaster, mistake, abomination._ It sets her brain aflame with dread and her heart frozen in fear. She knows she’s trembling, every utterance cuts into her like a hot knife, forces her to face her deepest darknesses with little to no preparation.

The pain is intense.

Linhardt looks over his shoulder and sees the state the scholar’s words have left her in, and he genuinely frowns out of sympathy. It’s a rare look on him…maybe she’s never seen it at all, before.

He slowly, hesitantly turns back to his verbal opponent, and pauses before speaking, the air in that pause filled with disgust at the effect of the scholar’s remarks.

“The thing is, doctor, that her presence has _never once_ brought me a shred of misfortune. Every encounter I’ve had with Marianne has left me in a better mood than before. That’s what I meant when I said that I noticed some holes in Chapter Eleven of your book. You theorized that, due to the beast blood in the veins of those bearing the Crest of Maurice, that in turn, their sweat would cause skin-to-skin contact to be toxic, and prolonged exposure to the bearer would cause deteriorating health until inevitable death, like a life-sapping curse from folklore across the continent. I’ve known this woman for quite some time, and as you can see, I’m not in any foul condition, nor have I ever been, so you can rule out the possibility of my body acclimating to the so-called toxins.” Linhardt retorts. “Furthermore, the strong theory that those with the Crest of Maurice can communicate with animals, in addition to my personal experience, lends to a theory of my own: bearers of the Crest of Maurice exude a mild —and involuntary, if you still think someone like Marianne is capable of deceit— pheromone that acts as a relaxant and stimulates a part of the brain that releases the reaction of joy. After all, animals as skittish as birds don’t flit down and stay around humans not offering food as easily as they do with someone like Marianne.”

“If that _were_ true, why is it that all who come in contact with that- that _vile creature_ are destined to meet their end, like her progenitors before her, and the plague that befell the small territory they occupied!?”

Marianne desperately tries not to cry at his words - it’s what she considers her harsh reality- but she chokes out a minuscule sob. Linhardt winces at the sound noticeably.

“Tell me, then, child! Tell me that she _isn’t_ cursed, at the very least to touch!”

At that, Linhardt steadily walks back to Marianne, he puts one hand on the back of her head, the other around her waist, and pulls her into an embrace, chin resting on the top of her head as both look back at the Crest scholar.

All at once, everything slows down, the ice in her heart melts and the agony in her blood cools, the buzzing of anxiety in her head begins to quiet.

It feels so nice.

So nice she forgets for a minute that she’s cursed. …Or maybe she isn’t. She has yet to decide fully.

Several seconds go by, but she’s zoned out to the point where she doesn’t realize how bristling the Crest scholar is, his jaw agape and absolutely appalled.

“Nothing bad has happened.” Linhardt practically growls at his fellow academic. “Now stop harrying this sweet woman before I inform some acquaintances of mine. I’m sure a Crest scholar such as yourself would _love_ to see the Sword of the Creator up close.”

The scholar recoils a bit at the subtle threat, face red with indignation. Deigning to retreat for the time being, he breaks eye contact with the younger man. “I see how it is…why you defend her…” He hisses bitterly “I’ll expose you yet, beast.” And with that, he lifts his nose ever-so-slightly in the air, straightens the fabric of his cloak, and turns to the opposite direction before strutting away.

In spite of the man leaving, the hug hasn’t ended yet. In fact, Linhardt decides to hold her just a bit tighter.

“The nerve of some people…” he grumbles, still traces of anger hidden in his voice. “If he knew you, he wouldn’t say any of that…”

Marianne is quite frankly too stunned in one form or another to really say anything. Guilty a pleasure as it is, she savors his arms around her.

Finally, she works up the pluck to speak once more, now working up the courage to embrace him back. He leans more into her in response. “…T-thank you…”

“Don’t mention it.” His tone begins to return to it’s usual, sardonic lilt and the tension fades from his posture. “I’m an academic, I loathe it when people get blatantly obvious facts wrong.”

Both quietly relish the hug for a bit more time, time seems to freeze around them as warmth fills their every pore.

“…Umm, do you…want to head to the Cathedral, now?” Marianne murmurs, remembering why they left in the first place, though she does feel some sadness in having to interrupt the moment.

Linhardt, in a rather bold gesture, begins to softly stroke her hair. “Thirty more seconds alright with you?”

“I suppose…”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you very much for reading! I hope it was satisfactory. I didn't have anyone test read it this time unlike Out of Step, so I'm a bit worried as to it's quality. ^_^;  
> I don't know how to make drabbles. I try, but then I feel like the "where's the beef?!" lady and feel like what I'm writing is missing some actual meat. Then I kind of go overboard and write well over a drabble. ^_^;  
> On that note, I always wanted to see Linhardt confront the guy hounding Marianne in her paralogue, given they're both Crest scholars, and Lin clearly thinks quite a great deal of Marianne given their exclusive meal and chore dialogue (really though, this pairing is *le chef kiss* lovely. Petrashe is my favorite in the game but LinMari just narrowly takes the silver medal).  
> Stay safe, stay healthy, God bless you, every human being!


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